


Kaleidoscope

by KateAtTheClose



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateAtTheClose/pseuds/KateAtTheClose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene takes care of everyone, but who will take care of him when he needs it most?  And what can't he remember?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kaleidoscope

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after "Bastogne" and before "The Breaking Point."

He was lying flat on his back, staring up at the white sky. 

 

Some trees managed to stretch up endlessly into the pure white nothingness while others were broken and blackened, but together they managed to form a circle of grey masses against the white sky, spinning in a merry-go-round as he watched, entranced.  It was quiet, and for some reason that bothered him although he couldn’t quite work out why.  It took him a moment to realize that he could hear some sort of ringing sound, but wasn’t sure where it came from. 

 

He was cold.  He saw the flecks of snow swirl around with the wind and wondered where he was.  This was too cold for Louisiana, for home.  Home, where his mother would make him gumbo and cornbread and feed him until he couldn’t eat another bite because she always thought he was too skinny, too pale.  

 

He listened to the wind whistling through the trees and to the vague ringing noise, watching the trees spin wildly above him.  His head hurt dully, feeling thick and heavy. 

 

_“Medic!  We need a Medic!”_

He levered himself off the ground automatically, checking his bag was slung over his shoulder as he pushed himself on his feet.  It took a moment for his head to catch up with the movement, and when it did it protested violently, causing him to stumble to the side as he quickly became confused at which direction was vertical.  His knees buckled and his palms impacted the snow, giving his stomach the opportunity it needed to rebel.  Agony flared in his head as he retched, and when he blinked he found he was lying on the ground once more, cheek cold against the snow. 

 

_“Medic!”_

 

He carefully put his feet under him and clenched his eyes shut as he forced himself to standing once more, somehow knowing the call meant he had to move, had to go  _now_.  He ignored the way the world teetered and spun, stumbling over to lean against a tree, gasping for breaths that burned in his chest.  He saw a helmet on the ground, and slowly leant over to pick it up and thrust it on his pounding head.

 

 _“Medic! Someone find -”_   

 

Somehow he made it through, the snow catching at his boots and using the trees as shoving off points, solid anchors in his dizzy, dreamy reality.

 

“Doc!”  He heard the angry voice before he saw who had spoken it.  “What took you so long?”

 

Gene leaned against the tree, gasping for breath, squinting at the blurry dark shapes in front of him.  The sense of urgency hadn’t gone away, he knew there was something he should do, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out  _what._  

 

“Doc, come on!”  Worried, irritated,  _panicked_.  This all seemed so familiar.

 

He heard a groan, and another voice spoke up, laced tight with pain “Common Doc, I ain’t chargin’ admission here!”

 

Gene’s vision cleared enough for him to see the white snow and the green uniforms and the red blood splattering over everything.   _Sulfa, bandage, morphine…_  Suddenly, he knew what to do.

 

He moved forwards, stumbling into the foxhole and falling back against the side as his vision skewed up and down like a carnival’s mirror.  He blinked furiously, his hands moving to the source of the blood, pulling the fabric away from the arm and finding the deep gash.  He reached into his bag and fishing around for the little white packet of sulfa, aware his hands were shaking and unable to stop them.  He ripped open the package with his teeth, pouring the white powder over the wound as carefully as he could but knew that his unsteadiness was causing him to miss some. 

 

“Hey Doc, are you alright?” Spoken hesitantly, from the man Gene was leaning over.  Gene fumbled with the bandage, and finally managed to slap it on.  He looked up at the wounded man, his mind floundering.  Suddenly he was aware that he hadn’t spoken, hadn’t said his usual reassurances, hadn’t demanded a call for a jeep be made.  The world took a sharp dip, and Gene blinked.

 

“What?”  Speaking was a lot harder than Gene remembered it, and he watched as the man – it was Luz, he knew it was Luz, sent a look over his shoulder to whoever was standing there.

 

He worked on tying the bandage, a strangely difficult task and there was a voice behind him again, the other man. “Here Doc, lemme get that for ya…”   _Perconte_ , his mind supplied, finally.  

 

A spot appeared on the white bandage, but not from having soaked through.  Another drop splattered next to it.  Bright, bright red against the white of the bandage. 

 

“Shit, Doc…”  

 

Perconte was tying on the bandage.  Luz was looking at him with wide eyes.  Gene slowly reached a hand up to his forehead and tugged his helmet off.  He heard a gasp and muttered curses, and looked down into his helmet to see the inside thickly coated with blood.  His blood.  He felt something wet and thick trailing down the side of his face. 

 

Gene distinctly thought that this explained quite a lot. 

 

The world swung again, and he felt himself drift to the side, unable to stop it, but this time hands caught him, leaning him back against the foxhole.    


His eyes slid shut as the shouting started again, this time from so much nearer.  Now, two voices broke the air as Luz joined in hoarsely with Perconte’s tired shouts.  Instead of shouting for a medic, they were calling for help.  

 

“Was s’posed t’give ya morphine.”  Gene remarked to Luz as the sky swung above him and Perconte rustled through the medical bag for more sulfa and bandages. 

 

“Nah, save it Doc.” Luz bit back a curse as Perconte accidentally jabbed him with an elbow.  “You want some?”

 

Gene started to shake his head before remembering that was an absolutely terrible idea and started to slide sideways.  His limbs were apparently not obeying him anymore and his head felt too heavy, throbbing with his heartbeat. 

 

“H- head injury… no morphine.”  This was very important, Gene remembered that much, but his numb lips didn’t seem to want to relay the message very fluently.  “Bad.”

 

“Morphine bad.” Luz repeated reassuringly as there was noise from above the foxhole as someone skidded to a stop above.  “Hey Lip, nice a you to join us.”

 

Gene concentrated on breathing and not vomiting on himself, Luz and Perconte. 

 

“Boys.” Lipton’s voice from above was wonderfully calm. 

 

Perconte held Gene’s chin painfully tight as he tilted it to the side.  Gene closed his eyes and focused on in and out, in and out as he felt the sting of sulfa hit the cut on his head.

 

“George and Doc are gunna need some stichin’ up, we already called a jeep but it hasn’t come yet.”  Perconte was trying to tie a bandage around Gene’s head, and failing to get it on securely.  Hands joined his as Lipton reached down to help. 

 

“It came, but Spina got there first with Garcia.  His leg was hit pretty badly; Spina went with him to the Aid Station in Bastogne.” Lipton tied off the bandage and placed a supportive hand on Gene’s shoulder. 

 

“So we call another jeep.” Perconte was already reaching for the radio. 

 

“It’s not gunna be able to make it,” Lipton’s voice was steady.  “The road’s out, after that last round, and we’re going to have to wait for them to clear it before any more jeeps can get through.”

 

Silence met his words, until a low whistle from Luz broke it.  “Well ain’t this gunna be a fun wait.”

 

Gene fumbled for his bag, and Perconte backed off to let him.  He squinted into it, and reached in to feel around for what he was looking for.

 

“Hey, Doc, whaddya need?” 

 

“Morphine.” Gene looked blearily over at Luz.  “F’r you.”

 

“Let us worry about Luz, Doc.” Lipton gently pulled the medical bag out from around Gene’s neck, pushing his head forward to get the strap off. 

 

“I’m real good at worryin’ about Luz, Doc.  I’ve got alotta practice.”  Luz’s lilting voice, though with an unusual undercurrent of pain, was comfortingly familiar.  

 

The movement caused by the tilting of his head proved too much for him, and Gene pushed at Lipton’s hands.

 

“’M sick,” Was all that he was able to get out, but Lipton must’ve somehow understood, because next thing he knew he was being hauled out of the hole by the front and back of his jacket, and was retching into the snow.

 

“How’d ya get that gash on your head, Doc?”  Lipton was holding him up, and Gene was mighty thankful since he doubted his shaking arms would be able to do the job. 

 

Gene thought about it, as Lipton propped him up against him.  He could remember trees and white, then yelling and red.

 

“Dun rightly know.”  His eyes were closed once more, his head resting against Lipton’s chest.  He was so cold.  Something flickered in his mind, that he thought he should pay attention to, but he was so very tired...

 

“Doc, Doc!” Someone was slapping his cheek.  “You aren’t supposed to fall asleep, even I know that.  Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

 

Gene looked up at him, and tried to remember what to do with head injuries.  The knowledge, the medical information that he had committed so carefully to memory suddenly seemed difficult to recall. 

 

“Check pupils.”  Gene mumbled.  “Light.” 

 

They must’ve seen him check another soldier’s pupil size before, because they understood what do from his weak prompting.  Perconte produced a lighter and Lipton lit it near Gene’s face.  Gene winced at the painful brightness, but tried to keep his eyes open.

 

“One’s bigger than the other.”  Lipton told him quietly.  They all knew that wasn’t normal, wasn’t good.  “What do I do now?”

 

“Wait.”  Gene couldn’t say he was surprised.  His dizziness, nausea, balance difficulties, confusion and problems remembering all didn’t bode well.  “’S a concussion.  We wait.  Dun lemme fall asleep.”

 

“Okay.”  Lipton’s face was purposefully blank, but he glanced at Luz and the bloody snow beside him.  “How you doing, Luz?”    

 

“Few cans short of peachy, Lip.”  Luz was cradling his wounded arm against his body, but his eyes were steady and alert.  “But I’ll do.”

 

“The three of you aren’t gunna fit in that hole, and we should take cover while we wait in case the Germans get bored again.  Doc, you’re comin’ with me, we’ll find a place for you somewhere else.” Lipton put Gene’s helmet on over his bandage, and wore the medic’s bag over his own shoulder.  He managed to stand, tugging Gene up with him, his arm securely around Gene’s waist.  “And keep an eye on the line!” He tossed over his shoulder as an afterthought. 

 

“Shit, Doc, and I always thought you were pale before.”  Gene managed a small, tight smile for Perconte in the general direction he thought Perconte might be sitting in.

 

“Always the charmer, Frank.” Luz gave them a wave with his good arm.  “Take care of yourself, Doc!”

 

“Keep warm,” Gene instructed, then realized how unnecessary it was to say, as they were both already huddled under a blanket.  He wondered when they’d done that.  Then Lipton was moving him forward, and with his head pounding and spinning he tried to walk and not end up flat on his face.

 

-

 

Babe Heffron had moved past “cold” to “absolutely fuckin’ freezin’” a few hours ago.  His foxhole seemed huge and empty without Julien in there with him, the empty space an aching reminder of the boy he couldn’t save.  Since becoming a paratrooper, Babe had gotten used to being constantly surrounded by other men, the lack of privacy a grudging sacrifice along with warmth, comfort, safety and decent food.  Now that he was alone, Babe hated it, feeling more lonely then he would have thought possible as he crouched there in the darkness listening to shells exploding and cries of pain.  Then came the silence.  He stared out at the snowy trees, wondering if anyone had been hurt in the last barrage.  He thought he had heard someone yell for a medic, and wondered who Gene had been working on.   

 

Babe stilled as he heard muffled footsteps approaching, but relaxed when he recognized the cut of the uniforms from their silhouettes in the fog as Yankee and not Kraut long before he could determine who it was.  As they came closer, Babe could tell it was Lipton, practically dragging along someone else who hung their head and moved unsteadily. 

 

“Shit, Gene, is that you?”

 

It was the lack of medic bag that threw him off the most.  He was so used to seeing the bag hanging at Gene’s side that he practically considered it a limb.  The medic patch on his upper arm was easy enough to miss – Babe knew that medics got shot all the time because Krauts couldn’t see the little red crosses on their arms that meant they were off-limits.  As far as he was concerned, medics should have big red crosses all over them because when he got hit (it was only a matter of time) he wanted someone like Gene to be there to tell him “it ain’t that bad,” even if it was.

 

“Babe, you get babysittin’ duty.  Doc here ain’t supposed to fall asleep, so don’t let him.”  Lipton had reached the foxhole, and lowered Gene into it.  Babe reached up and caught him as Gene fell more or less bonelessly into his arms.  He slid the two of them down until they were leaning against the side of the hole, and Babe could see fully see Gene’s face for the first time.  He was deathly pale, his mouth pressed into a thin line, the edge of a bandage visible under his helmet and blood coating the side of his face. 

 

“I’ll keep an eye on ‘im.”  Babe assured Lipton, watching Gene sit with his eyes clenched shut.  “I  _knew_  you were going to catch some of that Krout artillery with all that crazy runnin’ around ya do.”  He told Gene, who gave no sign of having heard him.

 

Lipton caught his eyes. “Spina’s with Garcia at the Aid Station in Bastogne, but now the road’s blocked.  Doc and Luz need some stichin’ up, but we can’t get ‘em there until it’s cleared.”  Lipton stood up, and Babe finally saw the medical bag over his shoulder.  “I’m going to go see how the rest of the guys are doing.”

 

“Think you’re a medic now, huh?”  Babe tried to joke, but the combination of Lipton carrying the bag and the M1 was somehow unsettling.  Lipton’s mouth quirked up in a slight smile, then he was off through the trees and fog.

 

Babe turned back to Gene, and found his still silence disquieting in a way he never had before.  Usually Gene, with his soft words and distant looks, was just so calming, as if his presence alone had the power to soothe and heal.  Now, his pale face marred by dark blood, he looked like one of the casualties he tried to save.

 

“What the hell happened to you, Gene?”  Babe asked softly as he reached up and tugged off Gene’s helmet, not really expecting an answer.  The bandage on his head was no longer completely white, but still was a sharp contrast to his dark hair.  Babe pulled the end of his scarf out of his jacket, shoving it into some of the nearby snow.  When it had soaked through, he brought it up and dabbed at the drying blood on the side of Gene’s face. 

 

Gene blinked his eyes open, squinting at him unevenly.  “M’not sure.”  It took Babe a moment to remember what he’d asked. 

 

“I hit my head once playin’ football with my buddies, got a real nice goose egg from it.  Couldn’t really remember what I was doin’ before I got hit.”  Babe was still wiping away the blood, figuring it was better staining his scarf than on Gene’s temple.  He’d seen enough head wounds to know they bled worse than they were, but there was something about seeing  _Gene’s_ blood that made his stomach clench.  Gene wasn’t supposed to be the one to bleed.

 

When he’d had most of the blood cleaned up, he wrapped his blanket around the both of them.  Gene’s head slipped to his shoulder, and Babe slung his arm around the older man’s shoulder, drawing him closer for warmth.  Gene’s head was tucked against his shoulder and Babe could see, past the dark hair and messy bandage, Gene’s lashes dark against his pale cheeks. 

 

“Gene, you ain’t ‘sposed to fall asleep.”    

 

“M’not.” 

 

Babe stifled his sudden laughter, amused by how much he sounded like a petulant child.

 

“You should talk, say somethin’ so you stay awake.” 

 

There was a pause, and Babe felt Gene’s breath warm on his hand.  “Like what?”

 

“Oh hell, I don’ know.”  Babe’s mind was suddenly blank of suggestions and he felt pretty stupid. 

 

There was another pause, and Babe looked down at Gene again and wondered if he should be poking him awake.  He realized, and could have smacked himself in the head, that he was asking a lot of the concussed medic.  He didn’t talk much on a good day, preferring instead to keep to himself, listening and watching the members of the company he looked after.  Babe wished he’d talk more, his soft, low words and the bayou accent were nice to listen to, so much smoother than the Philly accent he was used to.  And now, Gene lay against him, more like a dizzy rag doll then anything else, and Babe was asking him to talk?

 

“Lord,” Babe was startled when Gene started speaking, his voice weak.  “Make me an instrumen’ of your peace… where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there injury, pardon…”

 

Babe stared out at the white, foggy woods, listening as Gene slowly and haltingly made his way through the prayer.  It wasn’t like when a Father read the prayer at the service, when everyone listened and hoped God was willing to spread a little grace on their souls, too, even if they weren’t all that Christian.  This seemed far more personal; the slow, slightly slurred words were almost automatic, the Louisiana accent even more pronounced than usual with dizziness and exhaustion. 

 

It was beautiful. 

 

“…I may not so much seek ta be consoled as ta console…”

 

Babe could feel Gene’s heart beating against his chest, almost like an extension of his own.   _As to console…_  He thought of Gene, throwing himself into his and Julien’s foxhole while trees exploded all around them, his first question making sure  _they_  were alright, then running off once more when they heard someone shouting for a medic somewhere out in the chaos around them.  Gene, the only one who seemed to understand the way Julien’s death, the way he watched as the poor kid’s blood stained the snow as he reached out for help, felt like his fault, like a part of him had bled out with wide eyes and innocence.  Gene, with his dark, knowing eyes and pale face and set mouth, who had offered him chocolate instead of the casual, stiff way the other men had just talked about something else as if it had never happened.   

 

“…ta be loved as ta love…”

 

Gene, who the longer they stayed in Bastogne became more and more detached and despondent, until he couldn’t hear the cries of pain any longer and Babe had to drag him out of his hole and daze.  Gene, who said his nickname but no one else’s, low and soft, as he bandaged his hand with concern and gentleness that made Babe’s heart ache.

 

“…and it is in dyin’ that we are born ta eternal life.” 

 

It took a moment for Babe to realize that the smooth, weak words had stopped, and he couldn’t help but think that the cold air seemed so much emptier without them.

 

“Amen.” Babe said, for lack of anything else to say, and Gene managed to tilt his head enough to squint up at him unsteadily, and Babe could have sworn he heard the echo of  _‘Heffron, watch the goddamn line’_ in his head.  Babe laughed quietly, breathy, and listened to their mixed heartbeats.

 

* * *

 

After Babe prompted him to recite another twelve prayers, “Blood on the Risers” (he had refused to sing it) and Johnny Mercer’s “Tangerine” (never again), Gene was ready to just close his eyes and fall asleep, possible coma be damned. 

 

“Hey, what else ya know?” Babe’s voice was loud in the cold air, and Gene winced as his throbbing head didn’t take too kindly to the noise.  Babe’s fingers stroked his arm as if in apology. 

 

“No more.” Gene wasn’t sure if he meant that he didn’t remember any more songs or prayers, or if he was just putting a stop to this special brand of humiliation.  Gene had never liked the spotlight, it made him uncomfortable and only too aware of his faults, and the way Babe was listening, warm against his side, he didn’t like the thought of Babe becoming aware of his faults either. 

 

They sat in silence for another few moments, staring out at the battered woods.  Night was approaching quickly, darkening the sky and lengthening the shadows.  Gene’s vision was still spinning, but with Babe’s arms a comfortable, warm weight around him he felt grounded.  Every so often he’d suddenly feel as if he were moving when he knew he wasn’t, and grab Babe’s arm for support, but Babe didn’t say anything.  

 

“What’s the last thing you remember?”  Babe asked, “Before you hit your head, I mean.”

 

Gene thought, or tried to as much as his scrambled brains would let him.  Reciting had been easier, the words just waiting to be recalled.  Putting his thoughts in order took conscious effort, and he turned his face against the cool, coarse fabric of Babe’s jacket.  He could remember the shock of the first few shells to hit, always a surprise despite knowing it could happen at any moment. 

 

_-exploding in shards of metal and wood around him, men diving for their foxholes, desperate for any sort of cover.  The ground shaking, grey smoke and dark dirt shooting into the already white-fogged air as the artillery crashed down.  He wasn’t cowering down in his hole like his instincts screamed at him to do, while everyone else was taking cover he was leaving his, climbing out while his numb ears strained for the first panicked calls for help, eyes searching, stinging with grit and debris that coated the air even after the earth had settled, for someone who needed his help but was unable to yell for it –_

“Start of the attack.  Leavin’ my hole.”  

 

“Well that ain’ too bad, I mean, it was a pretty damn long attack but it wasn’t more ‘an fifteen minutes.”

 

“I don’ remember what I was doin’ before that.”

 

“Sittin’ in your hole, takin’ a break from harassin’ people for their aid kits, I should think.”  Babe made an effort to make his voice light and teasing, giving another one of his breathy laughs.  Gene gave a tight smile, his face feeling numb and stretched. 

 

Gene was quiet, trying to think, trying to remember.  It all felt a bit hazy and dreamlike, even what he did remember.  He head pounded and he raised a hand to rub it, only to touch the bandage that he had forgotten was there.  He dropped his hand again, feeling rather stupid, and Babe idly stroked his arm, the gesture strangely comforting.

 

There was a strange twisting feeling in his gut, not like he was sick, but that there was something nagging at him.  It wasn’t that he was too concerned about missing a few minutes, here and there, but he couldn’t help but feel there was something important he should be remembering. 

 

“So you’re sittin’ there, okay.  Things go boom, you jump up like the brave little medic you are, and then what?”  The breeze rustled through the trees, only a few leaves left now, all gone on the trees that had been blown to pieces by artillery.  

 

_-was shoved into a mostly frozen, and very hard tree by a blast exploding somewhere to his right, unharmed but stunned by the impact, coughing and blinking grit away, easy to forget he wasn’t alone in the chaos, that there was others nearby, even Spina somewhere out there between the trees-_

 

“I was waitin’ for someone ta holler for me.” Always hoping they wouldn’t, and yet they always did, always needed to. 

 

His head pounded and he took a deep breath in and out, stiffening as another wave of vertigo came over him.  He realized he was clutching Babe’s sleeve, and loosened his grip but didn’t let go. “ _Merde.”_

“What?” 

 

“Shit.”

 

“Oh.  Heysay that prayer in French or Cajun, or whatever it is ya speak.” 

 

“I feel like a one trick pony.”

 

“Speak, pony.” 

 

Gene smiled into the growing darkness, even as his head throbbed along with his heartbeat. 

 

“ _Seigneur, faites de moi un instrument de votre paix.”_ Gene closed his eyes as he smoke, the French bringing back memories of warm evenings on the porch, noises of the night in the background, his  _grand-mere_  on the rocker telling him stories about life and God.  “ _Là où il y a de la haine, que je mette l'amour; là où il y a l'offense, que je mette le pardon…_ ”

 

_Ya know, my grandma was a Traiteur… Laid her hands on people and cured ‘em.  Took away sickness, cancer, you name it... I r’member, she used ta pray a lot… Talked ta God about the pain she pulled out, asked him ta carry it away.  That’s what she did._

_“…Ô Maître, que je ne cherche pas tant à être consolé qu'à consoler…”_

 

Something nagged at his memory, something important, something he needed to remember.  What was it, why couldn’t he  _remember_?  He pushed his hand against the bandage, it was too itchy, too hot, too close.  Babe swatted his hand away, like he had done to so many wounded soldiers so many times before. 

 

_“…Car c'est en donnant qu'on reçoit…”_

…It is in giving that we receive…

 

_-Nous avons été censés recevoir avertissant un jour à avance!-_

…we receive… receive…

 

_-heard voices, followed them through the trees, ducking under a wayward branch.  It was only when he was twenty feet away that he realized the voices were speaking French, not English.  They were surrounded by Germans; he had accidentally crossed the line before and he must’ve done it again.  The invisible line: real when drawn on maps but impossible to follow when applied to snow-covered dirt.  He could hear shells exploding behind him.  He ducked behind a tree, keeping his breath quiet, not wanting to be discovered and shot, stripped and left in the snow._

_“Nous avons été censés recevoir avertissant un jour à avance!” Terse, angry.  We were supposed to receive warning a day in advance!_

_“Vous l'obtenez maintenant.  Nous ne libérerons pas le gaz avant notre notre d'hommes sans risque allé par demain.” German-accented and irritated.  You’re getting it now.  We won’t release the gas until our men are safely gone by tomorrow._

_“Qu'est-ce qui toute cette merde alors?”  What’s all this shit then?_

_A barking laugh. “C’est rien.  Nous les gardons juste de l'évasion à votre ville.” This is nothing.  We’re just keeping them from escaping to your city._

_There was a pause.  “Demain après-midi.” As if for clarification while committing it to memory.  Tomorrow afternoon._

_“Oui, pensez que vous pouvez se rappeler?” Mocking.  Yes, do you think you can remember that?_

_Silence, then a terse “merci,” and there was the sound of someone crunching away through the underbrush, and then another pair of feet moving away in the opposite direction._

_He pushed himself away from the tree, and-_

“GENE!”

 

There was someone shaking him, his cheek stung, he blinked then slammed his eyes shut again as the world went twirling around without him.

 

“ _Arrêt_ … stop!” What language, what…who… “Heffr-, Babe, please!”  Gasping, sick, he clawed at the hands holding his jacket, held on to his head tightly on either side, leaning forward in on himself. 

 

He gagged, unable to stop, the nausea taking him up and spitting him out, nothing to bring up but still his chest, throat,  _head_  straining.  The effort, too much, he fell forwards but hands caught him, held him, settled him. 

 

He could hear voices around him.  English, his mind informed him, because that had apparently become an important differentiation he had to make at all times. 

 

“What happened?”

 

“Private?”

 

“Doc?”

 

“Shit, Gene, you okay?”

 

“Why the hell isn’t that road cleared yet?” 

 

“Gene?”

 

There was a hand patting the side of his face, and he dragged his eyes open, trying to make sense of the blurring and swinging faces around him.  He was lying flat on his back.

 

“Gene?”  He could see Babe directly above him, scarf askew and nose bright red.  Lipton was beside him, crouching down, with Winters above him.  Malarkey and Muck were a few feet back, Nixon beside them. 

 

“Fuck, I thought you went into a fuckin’ coma!”  Babe shoved a hand under his helmet into his hair, eyes wide.

 

“Cap’n?” Gene managed as he tried to get his elbows on the ground beneath him to hoist himself up but was promptly pushed back down and held there by Babe and Lipton.  His vision spun dizzily and he was having trouble forcing the words past his lips, so he probably wouldn’t have made it very far anyway.

 

“What is it, Gene?”  Winter’s face was kind.

 

“The Germans have shells of poison gas, sir.” His heart was pounding, his head keeping close behind.  “They’re going ta use ‘em on us. Tomorrow afternoon.”  He closed his eyes briefly, as everything in his head was getting muddled up, swirling around in French and English and when he opened them again Nixon was crouching at Winters’ side. 

 

“How do you know this, Doc?”  Nixon was watching him steadily, and Gene immensely appreciated him listening seriously.  He realized how outrageous the claim was that he was currently making to the Battalion commander and intelligence officer.

 

Blinking, determined to get his point across, Gene felt Babe’s hand slip reassuringly into his. 

 

“Just after the shellin’ started, I overheard a man from Bastogne talkin’ to a German, in French.”  Gene had to pause for breath.  “The Belgian wanted ta know when the gas would be released, the Kraut said tomorrow afternoon.  They blocked the road on purpose, so we wouldn’t be able ta go back ta the city.”  Gene looked from Nixon to Winters.  “I had some trouble rememberin’ it, Sir, but I know what I heard.”

 

“I believe you, Gene.” Winters looked at Nixon.  “How many of the men do you think still have the gas masks they jumped with?”

 

“Too damn few.” Nixon stood up, his brow furrowed.  “The Nazi’s used mustard gas in Poland in ’39, said it was accidental, but who the hell believes them?”

 

“Mustard gas would pollute the area; we wouldn’t be able to stay here even if we did make it through the original attack.”  Winters was looking up at Nixon.  “So much for defending the area.”  He looked back down at Gene.  “That explains why the road was so bombarded, but it turns out it was a good thing we had you stuck close.  What side of your family is Cajun?”

 

“My mother’s, Sir.”  Gene said, his mind taking awhile to catch up with what was going on around him. 

 

“I think I’ll write her a letter, thanking her for teaching her son French.”  Winters gave him a pat on the shoulder.  “You take it easy, we’ll figure something out.”  He stood up and together with Nixon walked away, their heads close, already talking, planning.   

 

“I didn’t know they picked you out for a spy as well as a medic.”  Lipton smiled his crooked smile at him, and Gene smiled at him tiredly and closed his eyes.

 

There was a pause.

 

“I swear to God, Heffron, if you smack me I’m gunna choke you with a bandage.”  Gene muttered exhaustedly.

 

There were sudden, loud guffaws from a few feet away, and Gene cracked his eyes open to see Malarkey and Muck doubled over in mirth, Lipton smirking, and Babe flushed red and looking guilty. 

 

-

 

“Has someone checked on Luz?”  Gene mumbled from where he had burrowed into Babe’s side.  They were alone again in the foxhole, the dark sky above them lit with thousands of stars.  It was a strangely quiet night, and Babe wasn’t particularly reassured to know why.  Gas… that was terrifying.  He’d heard the stories, seen the pictures… so far, they’d been lucky and there hadn’t been a need for the gas masks that had been part of the endless mounds of equipment that they’d jumped with.  Hell, most of the guys didn’t even still have them, having lost them in the jump or soon thereafter.  What would they do if the shout went up? 

 

“Lip says he’s doin’ fine, pretty cold but hasn’t gone into shock or anythin’.”  Babe watched as his exhaled breathe became visible in the frigid air.  “Tryin’ out a new accent, apparently.”

 

“’S long as it ain’t mine.” Gene warned, but Babe knew he wouldn’t really mind.  Luz had imitated everyone at one time or another, especially the boys with accents different from his own.  They all complained good-naturedly and gave each other a hard time about it, but everyone, especially Luz, knew it was harmless fun. 

 

Babe shifted, Gene’s body warm against his side, watching as Gene sighed against the half of Babe’s scarf that he had commandeered.  Babe had asked him, when he’d first twisted it around his neck, practically strangling Babe in the process, where his own goddamn scarf was.  Gene had merely tucked the skin-warmed fabric against his own neck as he told him that it was probably in a pile of used bandages somewhere.  Babe, embarrassed, had helped him fit it beneath his collar.

 

“How long you gunna have to stay awake for?”  Babe asked; curious but not particularly annoyed.  His eyes stung with exhaustion as he stared out at the night, but he wouldn’t let himself fall asleep, not if Gene needed him.

 

“Ya got a light?”  Gene asked, and waited as Babe fumbled around in his jacket pocket for his lighter.  When Babe held it aloft victoriously, Gene gave him a slight smile.  “See if ma pupils get smaller at the same time.” 

 

Babe twisted around slightly, taking Gene’s chin gently in his palm.  He flicked the lighter on and held it up to Gene’s dark eyes.  The other man flinched, his brow furrowed, as the light hit his pale face, but Babe watched as the black circles immediately shrank together into tiny pinpricks.  The light flickered between them, highlighting the planes of Gene’s drawn face, throwing parts of it into shadow.  Gene blinked, eyes on his, and Babe’s found himself strangely unable to move.

 

“Well?” Gene asked, his voice low holding a tinge of something that might be amusement in it. 

 

Babe released his chin, rummaging through his pockets for his Lucky Strikes, hoping the darkness hid his sudden blush.  He found one, slightly bent but mostly intact, shoved it in his mouth and lit it with another flick of his lighter.  He blew out the smoke and habit caused him to offer it Gene. 

 

“They seem to be workin’ fine.” Babe said, rather belatedly.

 

Gene took a slow drag from the cigarette before handing it back, his eyes holding that slightly dazed look that by now Babe knew meant he was having trouble keeping his dizzy vision focused on one subject.

 

“That means I’m gettin’ better.”  Gene told him, a reassuring lift to his voice. “My head’s sortin’ itself out.”

 

“Good! That’s good!”  Babe had assumed it would, now wondering if he shouldn’t have been more worried about what would have happened if it hadn’t. 

 

“So I can prob’ly get some sleep now without bein’ too worried.”  Gene wasn’t smiling, but his mouth wasn’t twisted into a frown, and that was unusual enough.

 

“Thank-fuckin’-god.”  Babe teased, looking sideways at Gene.  “I’ve never listened to so many prayers in my life.”

 

-

 

Gene woke up, then immediately wished he hadn’t.  He gasped, palms slamming to cover his eyes as the light sparked through his brain leaving agony in its path. 

 

“Common, Doc, jeep’s here!” Someone was shaking his shoulder.  Gene automatically tried to push himself up, the whirr of the jeep’s motor just audible in the cold air.  Jeeps meant there was wounded; wounded men whom he had to make sure lived until they made it to the doctors and surgeons who could to more than slap on bandages.  Jeeps meant that he still had a job to do. 

 

He didn’t make it very far.  Once on his feet, his vision spun around him and grew fuzzy around the edges and seemed to go grey, and despite his determination to make it to whoever needed his help, his knees buckled.  Someone caught him from behind, and before he could make sense of the twirling world, he was being dragged out of the hole and into a jeep. 

 

“Don’t get too cosy at that hospital, Gene.  Spina will have a reign of terror without you here to keep ‘im in line.” 

 

Gene lifted his head slightly from where it had been cradled in his hands with his elbows braced on his knees.  He blinked, and managed to focus on Babe, who was smiling hesitantly at him.  

 

“Ah, what the hell you talkin’ ‘bout, Heffron.” Gene turned and saw Spina settling a very pale and drawn-looking Luz, his arm tucked in a sling and holding a bottle of plasma, into the back seat beside him. 

 

“Thought you were in Bastogne?” Gene rubbed a hand over the bandage where it covered part of his forehead. 

 

“They finally cleared that road; woulda taken another day at least, but they put a whole platoon to it last night and got it cleaned up real nice.”  Spina reached over and checked the bandage on Gene’s head.  He tilted Gene’s face up to the watery, grey morning light and watched his pupils react.  “Jesus, Gene, I leave you alone for ten minutes...” He teased, but gave him a squeeze on his shoulder before climbing into the front passenger seat and gesturing to the driver. 

 

“We’ll have him back before you know it, Mama Heffron.” Luz assured Babe as the jeep rumbled into motion, giving a low chuckle as Babe flushed and flipped him the bird.  Gene managed to give Babe a tight smile before he had to bury his face in his hands again for stability as the vehicle’s movement made his vertigo even worse.

 

“How’s that arm, Sergeant?” He asked Luz after a while, unable to look at him but needing to do something to distract himself from the nausea.

 

“Snug as a bug, Doc.”  Luz assured him, and then paused.  “You ain’t gunna hurl, are ya?”  

 

Gene didn’t answer.  After a long moment, Luz seemed to catch his drift. 

 

“Did I ever tell ya of the time Buck n’ I took Babe and Toye for two packs back when we were in Aldbourne?   Greatest thing you ever fuckin’ saw…"

 

* * *

 

Gene spent three days at the Aid Station.  They were cut off from further evacuation by the surrounding Germans.  The bandage, when they painfully removed it, had been stiff with blood.  The gash had been cleaned and given six stitches, then rewrapped with a clean bandage.  He’d refused the plasma they’d offered him, knowing there were far more serious casualties who needed it, and sank down against the wall.  He stayed close to Luz, who had needed twice as many stitches as he had, and who also slept beside him against the wall, for lack of space to lie down.  Still, as Luz pointed out, it was dry if not particularly warm, so it had foxholes beat.  Gene felt strangely anchorless to be in the Aid Station and not able to help. 

 

The worst part was not knowing how Easy Company was faring out in the woods.  Had the gas shells with been dropped?  They had heard nothing, but Gene supposed that no news was good news.

 

He slept for most of the three days, waking only when he was jerked awake by screaming or calls for a medic.  Gradually, he regained his sense of balance, the headache and dizzy spells persisting.  When he wasn’t asleep, he helped where he was able, holding men down, pressing bandages to wounds, talking panicked men down and comforting them when they needed it most.  Even with the bandage on his head and obvious unsteadiness, the red cross on his arm and overworked and overcrowded Aid Station never turned him away. 

 

Luz slept most of those three days as well.  His arm took an infection, which Gene blamed himself for.  He couldn’t remember those early minutes very well, just trees and snow and blood, but knew there must have been more he could have done to prevent this. 

 

“Shit Doc, you used the sulfa powder, a clean bandage, what more could you have done?”  Luz had reassured him, and then grit his teeth as his arm was cleaned.  Gene had held his other arm locked in his, his arm behind Luz’s back. 

 

The Aid Station had just gotten a supply of penicillin from the drop, and the resulting lightening on the rationing meant Luz managed to get a shot, clearing up his arm and making him restless as hell to get back to the Company. 

 

The doctor let them go on the third day, saving them from having to go AWOL to get back.  The Aid Station had no space to spare, and since Gene and Luz could walk and assured him they wouldn’t be returning any time soon, he told him he’d sign the release papers. 

 

 “Look what the cat dragged in!”  Malarkey crowed as Gene and Luz walked back into camp during what appeared to be dinner time, meeting a chorus of friendly greetings.

 

“Save some for us, boys?”  Luz peered at whatever it was that was passing as food. He wrinkled his nose.  “On second thought…”  

 

“Sit your ass down, George, and stop complainin’.”  Buck grumbled good naturedly, and passed him a cup of what Gene could only assume was edible.  “How was the Aid Station?”

 

“Cosy.” Luz answered, sitting next to Buck.  “Got stitched up real nice.  Doc did too, on that hard head of his.”

 

Gene was torn for a moment between joining the group and sitting off a little by himself, like he usually did. 

 

Babe waved at him, and Gene found himself drawn into the circle and given a cup of something warm but terrible smelling.  He ate it anyway, with Babe a familiar presence at his side.

 

“Hey, Doc, did ya hear about the shells?”  Perconte asked from a few seats away.  Gene could only shake his head as he took another bite of military-issue slop, newly appreciative when the movement didn’t increase his mild headache. 

 

What proceeded was a barrage of concurrent story telling, mostly contradictory and none of it based on personal experience.  Gene tried to follow the thread of narrative liberally sprinkled throughout, but no two stories were very similar.  What he grasped in the end, extremely vague on details but not daring to ask for clarification, was that the whole night while they cleared the road to Bastogne, Winters and Nixon had been on the radio to Colonel Sink.  Item company (either alone, with other infantry, or merely providing support) had managed to raid where the shells were kept, and removed them to some undisclosed location.

 

“So you’re a bon-a-fide hero, Doc!”  Penkala said brightly while glaring at whatever it was on his spoon.

 

“Imagine that.” Gene said. 

 

-

 

“So, have you remembered what ya hit your head on yet?”  Babe asked when they were hunkered down together in his foxhole, smoking and sharing their blankets. 

 

It had somehow seemed natural, when the sky darkened and he had completed his long-delayed rounds, to slip into the hole beside Babe, and after asking how he was doing to just stay there.  Babe had merely shifted over, allowing him under the blanket, and passed over half his scarf. 

 

“More or less.”  Gene answered, watching the stars above, wondering how they compared to the stars he saw from his porch back home. 

 

_-pushed himself away from the tree, casting an arm over his eyes as he ran through a cloud of smoke and through some underbrush.  He could hear screams and shouts coming from somewhere ahead of him, and veered in that direction.  He needed to find Winters and Nixon, needed to tell them about the gas, about what he had heard.  But he heard screams and he couldn’t know if they were of fear or pain, or were orders and directions, but he tucked his head down and ran, medical bag thumping gently against his thigh as a constant reminder of its meagre contents._

_“Medic! Medic!”_

_And there it was: the haunting call that would forever be associated in his mind with blood and wide eyes and mutilated bodies. Why he sometimes suddenly woke, not sure if the call had been real or in his nightmares._

_He heard the soft, swift sound of an approaching shell – kind of like the sound a dart makes, as it zooms towards the board – and it was close, too close, but came too quickly for him to do anything but throw himself blindly to the side, to messily hit the ground in a jumble of limbs and a shower of debris.  Disoriented, he felt around for his helmet, which had somehow fallen off his dark hair, and patted his medical bag at his side, hoping none of his precious syrettes had broken in his fall.  Seeing his helmet lying a few feet away, he stood in a crouch and almost crawled over to it._

_He didn’t hear the shell fall this time._

_One moment he was reaching for his helmet, the metal smeared with dirt, and the next he was lying flat on his back, staring up at the white sky…._

 

“Turns out I’m not as good at dodgin’ shells as I thought.”  He took a drag on the cigarette he was holding, and blew the smoke out into the night.  “And that the ground is mighty hard.”

 

Babe gave his breathy laugh, turning to look at him, nose red and eyes bright.  “Is that so.”

 

“It is.” Gene told him, his mouth turning up in a smile as he looked wryly back at Babe. 

 

“So what’s South Philadelphia like?”  He asked, and for the first time, allowed himself to hope. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My first story written for Band of Brothers, posted on Livejournal in the early days of 2009.


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